Please God, I Don't Want To Die
by zoltargirl
Summary: He thought: I am going to die. He thought: This hurts so f-king much. He thought: I don't want to die. Oh god, please, I don't want to die.
1. Chapter 1

John could feel his heart beating rhythmically in his ears as he slunk around corners, trailing slightly behind Sherlock. It was almost uncomfortably silent, his own footsteps quiet enough to not be heard, and his partner's unnaturally hushed. The duo backed against a wall, Sherlock signaling for them to split up.

They were on a case, naturally. A minor drug cartel with a newly created and highly dangerous modification of cocaine that was based in the basement of a protein powder mixing factory. Sherlock had insisted that they visit the headquarters and put a stop to it before any more of the local teenagers were sucked into the operation.

John nodded, pulling his gun from the inside of his jacket, and heading off in the opposite direction of Sherlock. He weaved through towering wire shelves loaded with containers of powders and liquids of suspicious origin. It all looked rather movie-set-ish and overdone to him, but he didn't doubt the price of some of that stuff was the reason so many kids had given away their lives away.

Rounding a table piled high with makeshift tools and more of the plastic containers, and then a corner with his pistol raised, John nearly froze in his tracks. Three of the six high schoolers who had disappeared were sitting in front of him. The stacks of cardboard boxes around them made a sort of square cubicle, the trio sat dejectedly in a line, leaning against one of the walls as they passed a paper-bagged bottle between them. There was one girl and two boys, their clothes ragged and dirty. He recalled their names dimly, Annabel, Matt, and Jake.

They blinked up at him and his extended gun, looking distant and addled at his presence. Cautiously, John lowered his gun slowly, tucking it into his waistband. "Don't be afraid, I'm here to help you. I'm going to get you all out of here and home to your families," he said slowly, trying to sound as soothing as he could manage.

When none of them moved, he stepped forward, preparing to help them up if necessary. As soon as he took that one step though, the boy on the end shakily stood up -Jake-, driving his fingers into the gaps between their makeshift walls. He was scarily skinny, and the threadbare clothes clung to his arms baggily.

"Why would I- why would we want to go home?" he slurred, digging his hand into the waistband of his jeans and returning with a .9 handgun. John tensed at the appearance of the weapon, resting his hand on his own just in case.

"Why would you want to stay here?" John asked, keeping his voice perfectly level as to not set off the boy.

"Here we got drinks, and our parents aren't anywhere around. Plus they showed me how to shoot a gun. I even got my own." He smiled crookedly, waving the thing as evidence of his ownership.

"Yes, I can see that. How much do you get to drink?"

"As much as we want!" he cheered, looking to his companions for support. Matt just smiled dazedly, Annabel looking lost with the whole conversation.

"What about the product you guys make? The drugs. Do they give you any of those?" The standing boy's smile faded.

"We aren't 'sposed to talk about it," he muttered.

"Oh come on you can tell me. I won't tattle to your boss," John chided, deciding that he wasn't going to try to get them out of there until Sherlock met back up with him. He just needed to keep the kid talking and hope whoever had taught him about guns had given him a lesson in trigger discipline.

Suddenly Jake was yelling, his voice shrieking throughout the room. "What do you think I am? A fucking little kid? I don't need your God Almighty attitude!" the kid's face was screwed up as he waved his gun in John's direction, who promptly backed away with his hands raised slightly. Obviously he had sampled a bit of the new stuff, violent mood swings being the main side effect.

"Hey, hey, calm down. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Just put the gun away, yeah?" John tried to speak slowly, using whatever inklings of negotiation techniques he had learned at one point or another.

"Don't fucking tell me what to do!" the kid screamed. He stood stock straight and seemed to be ticking off steps in his head. His hands were shaking crazily, and John kept backing away, speaking words of calming. Before he could even scream for Sherlock to hurry his arse up, the unmistakable sound of a gun firing echoed through the huge room.

The pain didn't come to him immediately, and he felt like someone had just jabbed him a little too hard. Almost not believing it was real, John looked down at the blood that was starting to soak his shirt. He gasped when the agony hit, feeling as though someone had just stabbed him and then shoved their hand into the wound. A groan of shock floated out of his mouth, and he clasped his hands to his abdomen, falling to his knees. The offending gun clattered to the ground, a steady stream of frantic apologies hitting his ears softly, as though muffled by some great huge thing.

John put a little effort into not falling directly onto his face, but he was still breathing in the cold dusty air that came with being mere inches from cement flooring when he barely whispered,  
"Get.. Sherlock." He could feel bile rise in his throat, but he swallowed it down petulantly.

Jake was hovering above him with shaking hands,and looked positively terrified. He seemed to want to help and complied with John's request, screaming 'Sherlock' at the top of his lungs. Not that it was necessary. As soon as the gun went off, the aforementioned Holmes was sprinting in the direction of the source.

There was quite a bit of shouting above him, but John was rather involved in the difficult process of staying awake when the only thing that was really clear to him were the excruciating pangs that echoed through his body and the blood coating his hands and running onto the floor.

He thought: I am going to die. He thought: This hurts so fucking much. He thought: I don't want to die. Oh god, please, I don't want to die.

When Sherlock rounded the corner, he nearly froze in shock. John was crumpled on the floor surrounded by a growing crimson circle, a teenage looking boy crouched at his side. Sherlock rushed to his companion, shoving the one next to John aside roughly, barking to get out of the way and call 999.

John vaguely noticed the change in scenery as he was rolled carefully onto his back, the incessant apologies replaced by a slow and steady voice that he knew so well.

"John. John listen to me. You are going to be fine. Alright, John? You're going to be perfectly fine," Sherlock insisted, carefully working the jumper up past his ribcage. Sherlock's expression was such a complicated cocktail of rage and worry that he looked almost silly to John, but he couldn't find the words to tell him.

"There's a lot of blood," John slurred sleepily. Sherlock didn't seem to have anything to say to that, but he quickly undid the buttons of John's shirt and hissed angrily. "Bad?"

"No. No, you're going to be okay," Sherlock glanced at John, who looked just as terrified as he felt. "Put yourself to some use and call an ambulance, you putrid swine stomach!" Sherlock screamed in the direction of the bystanders, tossing his phone roughly.

"I got shot," John said simply, not sounding too concerned with the whole matter.

"Yes, that's correct," Sherlock confirmed, unravelling the scarf from his neck and using it as a makeshift bandage to properly apply pressure to John's seeping torso.

"It hurts." Sherlock grimaced at the words, glancing over at the boy who was distressedly talking to the emergency operator. When he looked back, John's eyes were fixed on his face.

"I know. Not for much longer now, the hospital will have sufficient painkillers." John smiled slightly at the remark, pain veiled for a precious second. Sherlock placed the back of his hand against John's cheek, and quickly pulled away.

"You're freezing cold. Shock may have set in; are you feeling dizzy or anxious at all?" Sherlock placed his fingers to John's neck and ground his teeth at the faint, hopping thing beneath John's clammy skin. He nodded in answer to the question, but only the tiniest of head movement.

His eyes seemed to scream of determination to stay awake before they drifted closed.  
"John, please," Sherlock begged, not caring how pathetic he sounded. He was rewarded with John's eyes opening and staring up past Sherlock fuzzily. Everything about him seemed very resigned to the idea of being conscious.  
"Where's the goddamn ambulance!" Sherlock screamed at the boy holding his phone.

"She said they're coming. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to shoot him, I'm so, so sorry!" Jake was sobbing his apologies now, and Sherlock just growled at the noise.

"I don't want to die, Sher. I don't want to go," he cried quietly.

"John, I want you to listen to me. You are going to stay awake, and we are going to take you to a hospital, and you are going live through this. I'm not letting you go anywhere anytime soon." John groaned feebly, not sounding too thrilled at the notion of staying responsive in his state.

"I love you, Sherlock," he stammered, his voice was reserved, but the strangled tone was evident.

"And I you, John," Sherlock stated smoothly, fiercely shoving down the uneasiness that appeared when the bundle of fabric under his hands started to feel wet. He needed to stay rational now. Logic was his best bet.

The average response time for an ambulance was eight minutes, that gave them about six until the team arrived, plus however long it took them to find John downstairs. Moving John would cause him to lose too much blood. He just needed to keep him conscious for nine or so more minutes, and they would both be fine.  
"John, do you think you can stay with me for ten more minutes?" Air hissed out through John's clenched teeth. He nodded tightly. "Good, because there is no other option."

"That's your opinion," John breathed. The panic was making him feel jittery, but he just kept chanting Sherlock's words in his head, I'm not going to die. Sherlock is here. Everything is fine. He moved his arm around rather helplessly until it connected with Sherlock's, and he clutched at the rough fabric, holding himself to the world by his fingernails.

"How's the pain?"

"Why don't you use your deductions and figure it out?" John growled lowly, gripping the other's forearm tightly.

"Only a few more minutes now, John. Everything is going to be alright." They were silent for a few moments; Sherlock kept total eye contact, and frequently tapped John's cheek lightly to make sure he stayed awake. John struggled to keep himself up, as the pain seemed to be the only constant thing, everything else softened into a dull blur of muted colors and sounds. He was aware of Sherlock's hands pressing down on the epicenter, the slight changes in pressure reminding him with jolts of how much it actually hurt.

With what looked like quite a lot of struggle, John spoke. "I can't... I'm tired. I want to sleep," he said softly, sounding a bit pathetic really.

"You can't sleep, John. Not yet at least. But I promise you can sleep as soon as you're full of tons of lovely painkillers, yes?"

"When?"

"Just a moment more, I promise."

"Please," John moaned, the pain taking over in a stone-age style of Life and Death.

"John, listen. Just one more minute, and those bloody fools will arrive. All the pain will be gone, alright? You just need to hold on for a bit more," Sherlock said quickly, trying to swallow the panic rising in his throat.

"I don't want to die again."

Sherlock didn't have any time to react to the statement because at that moment, there was shouting upstairs. "DOWN HERE! YOU DAMN FOOLS, HE'S BEEN SHOT!" The detective didn't think he'd ever been as loud as he had in that moment.

The next few moments happened in a fogged frenzy. The paramedics had arrived and John was being carried away on a stretcher and there were police asking questions and uniformed officers moving the three teenagers about. One of the only things Sherlock remembered distinctly was arguing his way into the ambulance, and sitting by John's side as they rumbled their way to the hospital.

The medics buzzed around him, and Sherlock knew he was probably in their way, but it was better than not knowing what John's status was. They were finally starting to calm down after a few moments, and John turned his face to the other man, who was clutching the blood-soaked scarf carefully. Sherlock watched as his lips carefully made the words, and leaned in to hear him through the oxygen mask.

"Can I sleep now?" Sherlock smiled a little, breathing out in absolutely pure relief. He nodded a bit before the words actually came.

"Yes, John. Yes you can sleep now."

He could have sworn John quirked a smile just as he went under from the drugs.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock lounged in one of the fake leather chairs outside of the room that they had detained John in. He drummed his fingers against the overly-lacquered wooden armrest, desperately wishing for a cigarette. But John would never forgive him, and besides, even the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be able to argue his way into smoking in a hospital.

He had been sitting in those chairs for what was creeping into the fourth hour, moving from floor to floor and door to door. The scenery was always the same, finished wooden doors, locked sets of three or four chairs, some near-death plants, and a small stack of ancient magazines atop a low-set table. The only thing that varied -and not much at that- was the pattern of the wallpaper and the plastic fabric of the chairs. It was not much to keep anyone's mind occupied, much less Sherlock's.

Mycroft knew what had happened, of course, and Sherlock didn't doubt there would be a large amount of flowers and or balloons in John's room as soon as it was appropriate. Lestrade had been informed, as well as most of the precinct, and had called as soon as he found out. But even concern didn't make it any less middle-of-the-night. He had promised to come round with Molly as soon as they could get in, and cautioned Sherlock not to spend every waking minute there. Mrs. Hudson was to be told the next day, and maybe later than that. A worried old woman was bad when it wasn't Mrs. Hudson, and well, she was.

So Sherlock sat and thought and pretended that he could completely ignore the stomach-dropping fear that he felt every time a doctor walked down the hall in his direction. John would be fine as he always was, and that was the only thing he would tell himself.

But what if he wasn't?

This thought cropped up every minute or so, just when Sherlock had convinced himself that John _would _be completely and utterly one-hundred-percent _fine._ It was a vicious cycle that he couldn't seem to stop in any way, shape, or form.

He wasn't sure what would happen if John was no longer there. Permanently or otherwise. Life without his companion, nay, his _friend,_ was generally blurry and forgotten about. The new memories were much more important for a reason that Sherlock was not completely clear on. Going back to a time where Sherlock _and John_ was no longer a large part of his life was not an option. It was... Unthinkable. Ludicrous. Ridiculous. And more terrifying than anything Sherlock Holmes had ever thought of before.

He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned forward, mussing up his already disheveled hair with his fingers. Sherlock sucked in as much of the antibacterial chemical scented air as he could, breathing it out in a single stream. He needed to see John soon; he needed to know if- no. He needed to know _that_ John was alright. Deftly and with practiced ease, he plucked the cell from his coat pocket, checking the time and looking for notifications of any kind as he had rhythmically for the past few hours. When it showed no results, the detective stood and started pacing, debating whether sneaking into John's room was worth the effort and probably being kicked out of the hospital.

Just as Sherlock was deciding that he could just come back in disguise if necessary, -it would be worth it to see John breathing- a woman in a lab coat came promenading down the dreary aisle.

_Early forties. Is married, and has been for a large portion of her life. They're happy together. No kids, no pets- wait no, yes on pets. They have one, maybe two large birds. Macaws perhaps. She's rather unorganized, especially for a doctor, but it doesn't affect her work much._

"Mr. Holmes, I assume?"

"You assume correctly. Is he okay?"

The doctor seemed rather taken aback by Sherlock's straightforwardness, but regained her composure. "Yes, he's relatively stable. The bullet managed to miss any major organs, and wasn't too deep in the end. The worst was the blood loss, but it can be fixed." She seemed to want to say more, but Sherlock cut her off.

"Wonderful. I can see him now, yes?" It wasn't really a question, just more of a command phrased like one. The doctor smiled slightly, knowingly almost.

"Yes. He may not be conscious, but Mr. Watson is in room two-twenty-one." Sherlock didn't know if the hurried thank you was ever heard by the other; wasn't even sure if he'd even said it in the first place, but he was moving so quickly it probably didn't matter.

He was flying down the hall, flicking his eyes back and forth between the numbered doors on each wall. _Two-nineteen, two-twenty, two-twenty-one. John. _

Sherlock stopped for a second with his fingers resting on the handle of door 221, catching his breath and shoving off any excessive emotions that would concern John. With a mental shake, he stepped into the room, silently clicking the door behind him.

"John," he whispered almost involuntarily, feeling broken at the sight of him. John Watson was angled awkwardly in the room's bed, hospital gown covered by the crisp white sheets that lay over his legs as if he were a corpse. A cannula curved around his ears and ended in his nostrils, tubes going every which way to the happily chirping machines surrounding him. An bag of dark red liquid hung ominously on a pole above John's head. His eyes were closed, but Sherlock stood in the doorway for a moment watching his chest rise and fall with each breath.

When Sherlock relaxed, hanging his head and letting his shoulders drop, he was shocked to feel tears running down his cheeks which he wiped away quickly, moving closer to John's bed. He stood next to the edge of the bed, sliding a chair under his legs before carefully gripping John's fingers in his own. Sherlock could still feel those nails digging into his skin through the material of his coat. It felt like decades ago. "John, John, John, my Watson," he murmured reverently. Sherlock wiped more pesky tears from his face, the feeling suddenly taking over. Relief. More than relief. There wasn't an english word for how Sherlock felt then.

"John, I'm so sorry. So sorry." he breathed in unsteadily, and leaned over, resting his elbows on the vinyl mattress and pressing John's hand to his cheek. "You're alright, you're okay, John. Everything is fine because you're fine. John, John, John, John." Sherlock sat hunched like that for a short while, holding John's hand to his face and saying his name repeatedly, tears falling off his cheeks onto the cloth of the bed. He sniffled a bit and attempted to regain his composure.

Feeling John's pulse beating steadily under his fingers and being told the same thing by the bleeping computer screen next to John's head was enough to suck the adrenaline away. Sherlock suddenly felt exhausted, the past day's activities catching up with him in bone deep sapped energy. Gingerly placing John's hand back where it had rested, Sherlock stripped his own coat off, throwing it over the back of one of the other chairs. He settled back in his chair, carefully collecting John's right hand in his left.

"I'll be here when you wake up, John. And you better wake up. Just because I said you could sleep doesn't mean you never have to come around." Sherlock paused, wondering if John could really hear him. It didn't matter. The words were still true. "I love you, John," he said quietly, as though it was a secret. But it wasn't a secret. It never had been.

John awoke slowly, the drugs loading his system holding him to sleep for an undetermined amount of time. When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself in a dimly lit hospital room, rubber tubes breathing cool air into his nose. Glancing around, John smiled to see Sherlock curled catlike in a chair to his right, their hands intertwined. John rubbed his thumb across the side of Sherlock's, watching him breathe slowly as he recalled yesterday's events. Wait. Was it yesterday?

For all John knew, he could have been out for days. It seemed unlikely, but he really had no way of telling. There was a schedule of sorts on the wall that probably had the date, but he couldn't see it in the mostly darkness. He contented himself with watching how peaceful Sherlock looked and waiting for him to wake up to ask.

When Sherlock roused himself a little less than an hour after John had, the first thing he felt was his hand being squeezed. Confused, he swung his head around to see John smiling at him.

"Hey," he said simply. What he was thinking was more along the lines of 'Hey, thanks for keeping me from bleeding out on the floor of a protein powder/cocaine factory basement, and sorry you that you spent an unknown amount of time probably being insanely worried about me.' But just 'Hey' was easier.

Sherlock smiled so widely it seemed to defy the boundaries of his face. "John, you're awake," he said, sounding gleeful. John still looked wrong, his too pale skin defining the dark circles clinging to his gray eyes. But they were open and John was breathing and alive and healing and alive oh God he was so perfectly alive.

"Yeah," he sighed. "How long was I out? I wasn't in a coma or anything, right?" he smiled wryly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in concentration, not sure of the time really himself. He flicked his eyes to the clock on the wall.

"No, only a few hours,"_ It's 10:12 now, and I was let into the room approximately seven hours ago. You were checked into the hospital at 11:07, so about eleven hours_. _I was so worried._ "Not long at all."

"You're lying. How long?"

"About eleven." John grimaced at the number.

"And how many of the eleven where you outside waiting to see me?" Sherlock opened his mouth but John cut him off. "Be honest."

"Only four or so," he muttered, averting his eyes and reading one of the wellness charts on the otherwise bare walls. John winced at the realization that Sherlock had gone that long without knowing whether he was alright or not.

"Sherlock-"

"But you're okay, and that's all that matters." John smiled in response to Sherlock's grin, squeezing his hand like a lifeline.

"I'm probably gonna be stuck here for a while. Weeks maybe. You should go home and take a shower, maybe get some sleep." John said, leaning back on the pillows.

"Sleep is unnecessary. I'll sleep when you're healed."

"Not even you can stay awake for that long. Just go home for a while or I'll have to call the nurse and tell her you're bothering me." John almost laughed at the range of emotion that crossed Sherlock's face.

"You've only just woken up, John. I promise that once you've gone under, I'll go back to the flat and be here again when you resurface."

"Sher-" John began before he was cut off by Sherlock's look of 'Try To Stop Me.' "You are ridiculous."

"We have established this," Sherlock smiled when John rolled his eyes. "Lestrade made me promise to call him when you came to, so I'm going to do that. Be right back," Sherlock leaned over as he was speaking and said the last word against John's forehead as a sort of kiss.

At that moment, a nurse walked through the doorway, holding a clipboard. Sherlock slid by her with a muttered excuse me and an award winning smile.

"Morning, Mr. Watson," she said brightly. "I'm just here to check on you. Everything alright?" she asked as she puttered around the cords, checking screens and scribbling onto the chart.

"Yes fine, thank you."

"Feeling tired at all? Any pain?"

"Just need a bit of rest is all," he said, glancing towards the door to make sure Sherlock wasn't standing in the hall. John nodded the nurse towards him conspiratorially. "Just make sure he goes home after I'm asleep, yeah? If he won't leave just tell him it'll be better for me for whatever reason." he whispered. The nurse nodded understandingly.

"If there's one thing I can do, it's send home loved ones after visiting hours are over. That and test urine for disease," she whispered back, winking at John. He laughed a little, shifting slightly to get himself more comfortable.

"Thank you."

"No problem." She paused at the foot of his bed, fiddling with some of the papers.. "If I may say, you two are a really cute couple." The woman smiled a little before slipping back out. John barely heard her tell Sherlock 'he's all yours' before strolling away down the hall.

Sherlock strutted back into the room, staring after the nurse. "Apparently they told Mrs. Hudson and she almost snuck past the guard to come see you." He stopped and cocked his head at the still shocked look that had froze onto John's face. "Are you alright?"

John smiled a bit, shook his head, and turned to face a concerned Sherlock. "I _am_ all yours aren't I? What could be better?" John chuckled at the pale pink blush that had spread across the mortified look on Sherlock's face. He still heard the words 'cute couple' as he reached out his hand for Sherlock's, pulling him closer for a kiss.


End file.
